Judge Turpin Discovers Internet Porn
by Professor Cassandra
Summary: You read the title, my friends. I assure you, this is every bit as insane as it sounds. Proceed at the risk of your own precious sanity.... Actually, you know what? Sanity is overrated. Just read it. You know you want to....


**A/N: Why hello there! I see you've decided to plummet headfirst into the bottomless pit of insanity known as the CrackFic. Or perhaps you've already done so, even a long, long time ago, and are simply enjoying the free fall. Either way, I do hope this story shall not disappoint, because I promise to deliver a good, healthy dose of eccentricity and more than a few "WTF" moments. This is my first Sweeney Todd fic, but I have written several for Harry Potter as well that you may have seen before, all every bit as Cracktastic as this. None of my stories contain adult content, however, so if you're expecting something actually pornographic...MOVE ALONG, PERVERTS. [ahem] Okay. Anywho. Please enjoy, my faithful minions...I mean, READERS! :D**

It was a perfectly average day in the city of London: birds fluttering carelessly in the breeze before eventually being suffocated by the thick fog, insane old women begging for money whilst rambling on about the evils of the world, people strolling blissfully down the street, somehow failing to notice how nobody who ventures into that new barbershop in town ever seems to come out. But that's a whole different story. Today we join our favorite judicial rapist as he carries out his favorite daily activity: staring through a peephole at his seventeen-year-old ward.

"What is she up to today, my lord?" said the Beadle, passing Judge Turpin in the hallway.

"…Sewing. Again," replied the judge with a bored expression.

"I see. Er…permission to speak, my lord?"

The judge looked up in curiosity. "Granted."

"Well, to be honest, sir, I think you could do with a new hobby, or perhaps some new friends. All you ever do is stare through that peephole, or flip through those dirty books of yours…."

"Your point being?"

Beadle Bamford paused, not quite sure what to say. "You know, m'lord, the internet is an excellent tool for connecting with other…real people."

"The…internet?"

"Honestly, m'lord, you must get with the times. It is the twenty-first century, for goodness' sake!"

Turpin paused. "No it's not…."

"Oh, just come with me," said the Beadle with an exasperated sigh, and he pulled the judge into the drawing room. On the coffee table was perched a large, square…something. Judge Turpin wasn't quite sure what it was exactly, but it appeared to be glowing, and a large black box on the floor beside it was emitting an eerie buzzing noise that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge.

"Beadle…what the bloody hell is that?" He took a small step closer, hesitating, afraid a ghost or a monster of some sort would jump out at him any moment.

"That, m'lord," replied the Beadle quite slowly, as if explaining something to a little child, "is a _computer._ It allows you to communicate with people all over the world…the possibilities are endless, really."

"You don't say…." A hint of fear still showing in his eyes, the judge stepped forward and allowed his fingers to slowly grace the front of the monitor's screen. He then stared blankly at his hand for a few moments, half-expecting it to disintegrate into nothing or burst into flames. When nothing happened, he turned his attention back to the mysterious new device, his head tilted slightly, utterly dumbfounded. "Tell me more, Beadle."

"Yes, m'lord!" The Beadle grinned widely, his rotten teeth standing out. "Shall I set you up with an email address?"

"A _what_ now?"

"_This_, my lord, is where the communication aspect comes in. You use the keyboard—this little bugger right here—to type out a message to anyone you want. Kind of like a letter, only the recipient gets it _instantly!"_

Turpin's eyes widened. "What is this sorcery? I say, Beadle, I should have you hanged for this!" But Turpin sat down as he said this, his hand reaching for the mouse. "Now…what is this thing?"

"That would be the mouse, my lord. Here, click the little icon that says, 'Internet Explorer.'"

"What the bloody hell…?" he muttered, but did as he was told. "'Google…?' Do I _want_ to know?"

The Beadle snickered. "'Tis a search engine, my lord…but we'll get to that later. First comes your email address. Now, what will be your username?"

The judge stroked his chin in deep thought. "Carlos Spicywiener."

"NO. Just…no."

"FINE. Erm…how about…THE AMAZING RICK MAN?"

"…Where the bloody hell did _that_ come from?"

Turpin paused. "I…don't know."

"Ugh…move over." The judge rose, brow furrowed in confusion as the Beadle began to type frantically, stubby fingers moving across the sleek black keyboard in almost a blur. ". How is that, m'lord?"

"Brilliant," said the judge, shoving Beadle aside. "I can take it from here, thanks." He clicked once. "Say, Beadle…what is this flashing thing here, do you suppose? It just…popped up out of nowhere."

"Um, that would be a pop-up ad, m'lord. I wouldn't click it if I were—" But he was too late. Now plastered across the whole of the screen (and hark the fact that it was a rather large screen) was…well…perhaps that is better left to the imagination. Judge Turpin only stared, mouth agape.

And so it began.

* * *

"Judge?" A knock at the door. "Judge Turpin? Sir?" Another knock, this one a bit more urgent. "It's me, sir…Johanna." The doorknob was jiggled slightly, but the door would not move an inch, locked from the inside as it had been for a week now.

"Sir!" Johanna persisted, but still no answer. Dropping her heavy satchel to the floor and heaving a sigh, she knocked again, one last time. "Judge—"

"WHAT do you want, woman? Can't you see I'm busy here?" His roar echoed throughout the house, though he still was securely locked in the drawing room. By now, the Beadle and Johanna were beginning to forget what that room actually looked like.

"Erm…" Stumbling over her words a bit, Johanna continued. "Sir, I'm leaving." No response. "Today. Now." Silence. "…With Anthony!"

Finally the Judge answered in a mumble. "Yeah…sure…fine. Have fun, kiddo."

Pressing an ear to the keyhole, Johanna could distinguish the sounds of rapid typing and clicking of the mouse. "Sir," raising her voice a bit, "I do not think you fully understand. I'm _running away_. I'm not coming back."

She heard no answer, only faint murmurs of the Judge, talking to himself. "So _that's_ what Pirelli does on weekdays...."

"Sir!"

"I get it, I get it, go away…."

"So, I'm…I'm just…free to go, then? But I thought…"

"I DON'T GIVE A CRAP WHAT YOU DO, WOMAN, JUST LEAVE ME THE BLOODY HELL ALONE!"

Giving a start, Johanna stumbled backward over her satchel. "R-right! Okay!" She stood with a befuddled shake of her head, picking up her bag, more than ready to leave the great Judge to his "business."

At that moment the front doors burst open, and a handsome young man with long, sandy hair dashed inside, screaming at the top of his lungs. "UNHAND HER, YOU FIEND, OR I SWEAR I'LL—"

"Anthony! It's okay."

"I SWEAR, TURPIN, IF YOU DON'T…Wha?"

Johanna giggled. "It's all right, Anthony. He's a bit…occupied at the moment. Lusting over someone who isn't me for a change."

"Oh." An awkward silence. "So we can just…go?"

"Indeed."

"Okay, well…sweet!" Draping an arm around her shoulder, Anthony led his new bride-to-be to the carriage waiting outside. "To a new life, where all our dreams will come true."

"I've never had dreams. Only nightmares."

"…Wow, you're, like, a constant downer, huh?"

* * *

The sun was just setting behind the thick London fog one day as Sweeney Todd paced back and forth in his "Tonsorial Parlor of Doom," Mrs. Lovett's eyes fixated solely on his hind quarters as he did so.

"Where is the Beadle?" mused Sweeney, trademarked scowl etched upon his face. "He said he would be here before the week is out…."

"Well, 'oo said th' week is out?" replied Mrs. Lovett. "It's only Tuesday."

"IT'S BEEN TWO MONTHS, YOU STUPID BIMBO."

"Geez…wot crawled up your cute little arse 'n died?"

Sweeney said nothing but stubbornly flung his favorite razor across the room and proceeded to pout in his emo corner. Rolling her eyes, Mrs. Lovett rose from her seat and strolled over to the window.

"Honestly…," she mused, "always broodin' on abou'… Oh! Mr. T, look! There 'e comes now!"

And at that he hopped up, making a grab for the discarded razor, and dashed over to the window, shoving Mrs. Lovett to the floor in his haste and staring out like an over-anxious five-year-old. "Holy frick, it _is _him! I knew he'd come, I just knew it!" He then made a beeline toward the door, hand resting eagerly on the doorknob until the Beadle finally ascended the stairs. Mrs. Lovett, meanwhile, was just managing to drag herself off the floor.

"THE JUDGE!" Sweeney shouted as he flung the door open, causing poor Mrs. Lovett to give a start and hit the floor again. "I mean, er…," he continued, noting Beadle Bamford's shocked expression, "how is the old judge fairing as of late, hmm?" His left eye gave a twitch.

The Beadle, now sporting a rather large beard and deeply sunken eyes, took a deep breath and grumbled, "Dead. Spent two months straight staring at that damned computer screen...never ate nor drank...finally starved to death a couple of days ago. Took him long enough, I must say...been giving me _crap_ for years…."

Sweeney just stood there, mouth agape. "Oh. Erm…well. I…I guess…that's that, then."

"I CAN HAS SEASIDE WEDDING?" shrieked a suddenly hyper Mrs. Lovett.

He shuddered, wondering how she had managed to sneak up on him so fast. "Um. Sure…why not…."

"YAY!" she nearly screamed, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck from behind and quite visibly sniffing his hair.

He grimaced. "Yaaaay…."

And so, with no judge to revenge upon and no scores left to settle, Sweeney Todd, Mrs. Lovett and Toby were able to move to the beautiful seaside, Johanna and Anthony soon taking up residence nearby. And they all lived happily ever after…well, except for Sweeney, who would now have to put up with Mrs. Lovett's constant, perverted ramblings and gratuitous hair sniffing for the rest of his miserable life. FIN.


End file.
